My Grown-Up Christmas List
by citigirl13
Summary: AU. Bellamy hates Christmas. It's even worse since he is stuck with Clarke Griffin, who is determined to make him enjoy Christmas. Like that's going to happen. One-shot.


**A/N:** This is my little Christmas present to all Bellarke shippers out there. I kinda struggled a bit with this story. I had the idea about ten days ago and only just finished it. I edited some bits quite a lot and took out huge chunks that weren't necessary. I hope you all enjoy it.

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><p><span><strong>DISCLAIMER:<strong>** I do NOT own **_**The 100**_** or any of the characters; I do not own any songs/lyrics mentioned in this story**

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><p><span><strong>My Grown-Up Christmas List<strong>

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><p><em>Do you remember me?<br>I sat upon your knee  
>I wrote to you<br>With childhood fantasies_

_Well, I'm all grown up now_  
><em>And still need help somehow<em>  
><em>I'm not a child<em>  
><em>But my heart still can dream<em>

Michael Buble, _My Grown-Up Christmas List_

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><p>Honestly, Bellamy Blake doesn't know what he did to deserve this. Maybe he had been a terrible person in a former life. That must be it. He's only eighteen; there's only so much he could have done to earn this horrifying punishment. Maybe it's because he blamed four year old Octavia for spilling nail polish remover over the sofa; or when he pretended he hadn't been the one to kick the football through Mrs. Talbolt's window. And there had been that unfortunate superglue incident, where he had stuck down all the items on his science teacher's desk (and would have gotten away with it too, if Simon Wheaton hadn't had an attack of conscience), but he had done detention for that.<p>

So what had he done to be stuck in this hell?

His high school has always gone all out for Christmas, and this year is no exception. The school has been split into classrooms, and the Festival Elves (which is the name of the seniors who are in charge of the Christmas activities, though there are some imaginative attempts at renaming them from certain seniors, himself included) decide what activities the group are going to do.

It's bad enough that he has to participate – it's mandatory for the entire school, to make sure they at least have something on their transcripts for college – but he's been placed in the group where the leader is none other than Clarke Griffin.

Miss Clarke I'm-so-perfect Griffin is standing at the front of the room, excitedly writing down the suggestions from the class. Of course, she would love Christmas. Bellamy honestly can't imagine what Clarke has to complain about: her mother is a doctor, earning such a huge amount of money that she can buy her precious princess whatever she wants; she is so smart that she'll probably earn even more money when she gets older; and to top it off, she has the looks of an angel that has the rights to grace the top of the Christmas tree. Why shouldn't she love Christmas?

Clarke has passed out a list of the final activities that she's printed out; students are expected to participate in at least five, some taking part in the last week of term, some starting the next day, some outside of school hours.

Bellamy is so busy looking through the girlish, disgustingly cheery list he almost misses what Clarke is saying.

"And I want everyone to write a Christmas list," she continues. She has a huge smile on her face, like she's a little kid herself. "Now this Christmas list isn't going to include all the presents you want from your friends and family. It's meant to be what you want for the good of the world, your family – y'know, the stuff that you would give them if you could. They can't be selfish wishes. And then on Christmas day you burn the wishes so they'll come true." She is smiling round the classroom, a look of completely serenity on her face and...

...Bellamy wants to throw up.

Finally the period is over. The second the bell rings Bellamy gets out his seat, prepared to race away, when Clarke calls his name. She is standing by the desk like a goddamn teacher. Bellamy wants nothing more than to insult her, snub her by leaving.

Instead he sidles over to her. "What's up buttercup?" he asks, smirking.

She frowns at him, but when she speaks it's reasonable. "You haven't put your name down for any of the activities."

"Yep."

Her frown grows. "Bellamy, you have to do this. C'mon," she says, nudging him with her arm. "You might actually enjoy it."

He scoffs. "Yeah right. You may be constantly high on Prozac, but some of us don't fancy pretending to believe in magic and Santa Clause and all that shit."

He wants to shock her, to make a blush rise on her cheeks. But instead she smiles. "Well this year I'll lend you some of my stash, because you're going to be involved in a lot of Christmas activities." She bends down, placing ticks in the boxes next to each activity. When she stands Bellamy sees she's highlighted most of the list.

"You're insane if you think I'm doing them," he warns.

"Then I must be insane." Her smile is so bright it could power up the school. "You can be my helper."

* * *

><p>His best Christmas was when he was six.<p>

He finds it pretty amazing that he can remember it in huge detail, since he can barely recall what happened a week ago. But when he really thinks about it he can chronicle the whole day.

Him, his mother, father and Octavia went to the Christmas service at ten, back when his family actually attended. He didn't listen to what the priest was saying, but he liked the bright decorations at front of the church, and his father let him and Octavia eat sweets. He could remember, even now, his mother's smile, and how she would take his father's hand.

By the time the service was over, it would be Christmas morning. When they got home his father would always let him and Octavia open a present, though it had to be one from the stockings hung up on the fireplace. That year Bellamy got a glow-in-the-dark ring, which he used to blast Octavia. And even though it was late for them, they would be allowed to stay up a little longer to make decorations to add to the tree in the morning. Octavia sloppily created a Christmas tree, though the paint which was meant to resemble the decorations all melded together, creating a strange much-green colour. Bellamy poured glitter over a handmade star. Their parents sat with them, making their own. That was the year his mother made a small picture frame to fit in a photo of them all together.

They slept in late, waking up at about eleven to open presents. He got a sword, a red cape, a Superman action figure, and a water gun along with some little chocolates and other silly stocking-fillers, like glitter gum and bubbles. He doesn't really remember what Octavia got except for a glow-in-the-dark crown (things that glowed in the dark were big back then) and matching wand, which she used to hit him with. They played for a good two hours before dinner was ready. They didn't have a huge amount of money so they had chicken instead of turkey. But Bellamy doesn't remember feeling left out; in fact he doesn't think he's ever eaten better.

They played board games after that, and as he and Octavia got sleepy they put on the television, listening to the carols. He can still feel the heaviness of his eyelids as he forced himself to stay awake, not wanting the day to end.

Best Christmas ever.

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><p>He's been trying to avoid her, but she is somehow everywhere: every time he turns around her sees her, prancing round in her glittery red dress or bright green one, or elegant white jumper and skirt (Christmas colours, Bellamy thinks), wearing antlers or a elf hat or something equally ridiculous. Next to her, Octavia looks like a dark angel, smirking in her purple top and black jeans, streaks of ribbon in her hair.<p>

He almost makes it out – he ducks into a boy's bathroom when he hears her voice, though it might not have been Clarke. He nearly reaches the exit when he feels a hand, soft yet firm, grip his wrist. "There you are," she says, a big grin on her face. "C'mon, we're in 312b."

He isn't given a choice as she yanks him down the hall, resolutely closing the door behind him. "We're making Christmas cards and stockings," she says, leading him to the table. She's pushed all of them together to create one big one. "You can choose. I'll get more supplies." She leaves him and goes out the door.

Beside him, Miller grimaces. "She's like fucking possessed," he hisses in Bellamy's ear. "I couldn't get her off me."

Bellamy lets out a weary chuckle. He glances down at the table. There are sheets of coloured card, felt pens littered over the table and enough glitter to light up the darkest pit of the ocean. He looks back hopefully at the door, but Clarke has already re-entered the room, carrying a box that looks suspiciously like it's filled with bits of left over tinsel. He grimaces.

Knowing when he's beaten, he bends down and folds a bit of card. On one side Miller is writing a Christmas message; on the other side Jasper is pulling bits of glued card off his fingers, while managing to make a bigger mess. Biting his lip, Bellamy focuses on drawing snowflakes his with a blue pen.

"That's good," he overhears Clarke say, bending over to see what a younger girl, Harper, is doing. She smiles at the girl. "The kids in the hospital will love it."

Bellamy's hand freezes over the card. Swallowing he sits back.

Kids in hospital won't get better because of a handful of paper cards. All they'll want is to be at home. But instead they'll have needles shoved in their skin, tablets that make them drowsy, short little clumps of hair that is bound to fall out. All they'll be hoping for is that they don't vomit up their dry Christmas lunch.

A minute later, the demure sound of _Silent Night_ is cut off; at full volume _I Wanna Rock_ screams through the room instead. Kids drop their equipment in surprise, flinching and blocking their ears. Clarke practically leaps over the desk in her haste to turn it off. Peering at the computer she sees that someone created a playlist which featured songs from Simple Plan and Three Days Grace; good bands they are, but not the music that she wants for this session.

She glances round the room. "Where's Bellamy?" she asks, gesturing to his empty chair. Miller's chair is also suspiciously vacant.

Jasper attempts to lift his hand, but his skin is now super-glued to his jumper. He settles for nodding. "They left - _ah!_" he cries as Monty pulls his hand free.

Clarke sighs.

* * *

><p>He remembers the worst Christmas too.<p>

His mother had been drunk throughout the day. She had started when he and Octavia had opened their presents. They were good gifts – in fact they were better than usual, new and expensive toys and games – but Bellamy couldn't bring himself to be pleased. He tried to smile, and Octavia did – it was their mother that couldn't raise it.

She continued to drink throughout the day, which resulted in the turkey being burnt. When he said burnt, he meant it: it was completely black. That set his mother off. Sobbing and wailing that this would never have happened if their father had been here, she raced up the stairs and shut herself in the bedroom, taking the bottle with her.

He remembers standing alone in the kitchen, the smell of burnt food crawling up his throat. He doesn't think he ever felt worse in his entire life, not even when they found out his father had cancer, not even when the doctors told them there was nothing that they could do. At that moment, on Christmas day, he honestly didn't know how he – or his mother or sister – would manage to continue.

There is nothing worse than realising that you have no future.

He and Octavia had found their mother passed out in the bathroom. Without saying a word to each other, they had managed to get her into bed, leaving a bowl at the side. Bellamy looked at his eleven year old sister, who had the eyes of an eighteen year old. Bleakly they closed the bedroom door.

He headed into his own room. "Bell?"

He turned. Octavia was standing in the hallway, looking exactly how he had felt when he had been in the kitchen. "Yeah?"

She swallowed. Took in air. "I don't want to be alone."

Back then, they hadn't been cuddly siblings. Their favourite pastime had been bickering with each other. Even during their father's illness, they had sought comfort from their mother rather than each other. But now he held out his hand.

Together they climbed into Bellamy's bed. It was only half eight, and they could hear the music from next door. It seemed to make everything worse, their joy rubbing salt into an open wound.

"Bell?"

"Yeah?"

Her voice was quiet when it began, but grew stronger as she went on. "Do you remember when I was five, and we went camping? And I didn't want to sleep in the tent, but Dad said we would be protected because of it?"

"Yeah."

"And we slept right through the night." He felt Octavia's hand squeeze his. "I haven't slept like that for ages."

He felt his throat squeeze shut. "Neither have I."

"I wish we had a tent now."

She sounded pitiful, hopeless. And that tore into Bellamy's heart like nothing else.

He got out of bed and went into the airing cupboard, bringing out the old sheets. With Octavia watching, he tied the cords of their dressing gowns – and the old one of their father's. He tested it, tying one end to the railing of the curtains by his window, the other on his wardrobe. Then he looked at the sheets. Measured. Cut.

"Bell!"

"Relax O." He continued to cut a hole in the sheets. "Mom will barely notice."

He's still not quite sure how, but he actually managed to get the tent to work. It was probably because the string was so low, so the sheets hit the floor. He turned, looking at Octavia. His sister's face answered his, a smile that seemed so childlike that Bellamy remembered just how young she was.

They pulled their mattresses on the floor and that night, they slept underneath the tent, cocooning together underneath the blankets. But they didn't just sleep. It was Octavia's turn to come up with something. She brought a stack of paper and a box filled with art supplies. Sitting down, she began to fold a piece of blue paper. Then she cut into it, sometimes taking bits out, other times simply making marks.

When she was done, she unfolded it to reveal a snowflake.

"To go on the tree," she said. "Remember?"

He did. He reached for a sheet of paper.

They spent the rest of Christmas day, and a few hours into Boxing day, making dozens and dozens of snowflakes, discarding the ones that they thought weren't good enough to go on the tree. They stuck bits of string on the few they deemed worthy, adding bits of glitter and colour.

"Christmas is over now," Octavia had said. She was lying on the mattress, resting on the pillow. "We'll put them up next year."

Yes, it was the worst Christmas. But he still remembers it as the time when he Octavia learnt, with certainty, that it was best to work together.

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><p>"O, you're hurting," Bellamy complains. How his little sister, younger by fifteen months, has managed to drag him to the mall is quite a show of her strength. Then again, he's always known that she's a pain in the –<p>

"Quit whining Bell." Octavia is leading him towards the end of the mall, where the girly shops are. "I need to get something for Marion. I'm assuming you'll want to club together?"

Bellamy blushes; he's not great when it comes to Christmas presents, particularly when he's buying for girls. "Yes please," he murmurs.

She chuckles. "No problem. And I know you're going to buy me something, but can you please avoid getting me anything with a unicorn?"

He looks at Octavia's outfit, thinking it definitely states that she is not a unicorn kind of girl: she is wearing a purple and black corset top and blue low-rise jeans. He's given up fighting with her about what she wears. With the bruises she will leave on his arm, he has no doubt she can fight off anyone that will harm her. And if she can't, rest assured, he'll do it for her.

They turn the corner and the first thing Bellamy sees are elves. Specifically, dancing elves. He actually stops as he watches them doing a strange kind of jig, their faces stretched in comical expressions.

Octavia is smiling, looking at his expression. "It's great, isn't it?"

He doesn't answer. Instead he looks behind the dancing elves. Most of his class are there, in rows, singing Christmas carols. Bellamy winces; Jasper and Monty do not have good voices.

"You made it."

Clarke has come up from behind. Today she is wearing a green dress with hints of gold, a little elf hat resting on her curly gold hair.

Octavia smiles smugly at her. "I told you I could get him here."

"I must admit, I had my doubts. Never again." She gestures to the carol singers. "I don't suppose you want to join us?"

She snorts. "I would, but I haven't brought my uniform. I don't want to scare the kids. Besides, I need to go shopping." She turns, holds her hand out to Bellamy. "Money please," she says.

"You've stuck me in the cheeriest hell, and now you're getting money off me?"

"I thought you said we were getting Aunt Marion something together?" Octavia sticks her bottom lip out. "You wouldn't dare stiff you're little sister up, would you?"

Bellamy gives a who-would-have-a-sister kind of sigh, before reaching into his wallet and giving her thirty bucks.

Octavia beams up at him. "Love ya big brother," she says, planting a kiss on his cheek. Bellamy knows Clarke sees the smile he gives his little sister, but he doesn't care. "Have fun," she says sarcastically, and with a wave goes away.

He looks back at Clarke, who has an aren't-you-two-adorable look on her face. He wants to insult her but can't quite find the words. "Elves."

She grins. "I thought they added festive cheer."

"But if they're here, who's running the country?"

"Very funny."

"I'm not singing."

Her eyes, a bright winter-sky blue, focussed on him. "I know that," she says. There is a hint of teasing in her voice. "Never in my wildest dreams would I imagine that you would sing along with dancing elves. I thought you could hold the donation bucket." She passes one to him.

He blinks. "You got me to come here so I could hold a bucket?"

She nods. "How is your Christmas list coming?"

"My-"

"Y'know, the unselfish Christmas list. Have you finished it?"

"Yeah, of course. In fact I've done a few different ones, y'know, to show how truly generous I am. My favourite is the one where I donate all the items in my wardrobe to the penguins."

"Very funny." She frowns. "Seriously Bellamy, I think you would enjoy doing it. It's therapeutic." He opens his mouth to reply, but she beats him to it. With a smile and a little wave she says, "Now I'm going to go and actually have fun."

She approaches the choir, and once the song is over she leaps in, leading them into _Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree. _She is easily the most animated person there, grinning and moving in time with the music. Her presence lifts the others in the group: smiles begin to pop up, their voices grow stronger. Seems that Miss Clarke feel-the-spirit Griffin has a way of spreading joy to everyone. Bellamy doesn't even have to try to get donations; passers-by drop coins in, their eyes glued to the singers. The dancing elves are finally upstaged.

He studies her. When she isn't speaking, she looks quite pretty. Sure, the hat does her no favours; but it is her smile that truly makes her come alive.

When Clarke finishes the song, she glances over to see Bellamy's reaction. The donation bucket is on the floor. The smile, so bright on her face, fades.

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><p>It's finally the start of the holidays. They're getting ready to decorate the tree when Marion appears. She's dressed in scrubs. "I'm sorry," she says. "I got called into hospital."<p>

Marion is a nurse and her schedule is all over the place. Bellamy tries not to mind. After their mom died, no one was quite certain who would be able to look after them. They were almost shipped off to a distant uncle in Florida, but Marion, their mother's little sister, stepped in. She is barely out of medical school, and right up until she got the call about their mother, had been going out every night after her shifts and drinking, only to stumble back on shift with a killer hangover.

But Marion immediately took them on. She didn't care that, instead of living alone, she now had to look after two traumatised teenagers in her dead sister's house. And it had been tough, particularly at the beginning, with a lot of fighting and tears. But now they had all gotten to a good place. Bellamy will never be able to thank her enough for looking after them.

She sweeps past them, looking over at the tree. "You guys should decorate it," she says, and he can hear from her voice that she is trying to be cheerful. "I don't know when I'll be back."

He and Octavia can't help but look at each other; they know that it is the last thing that they want to do.

"Maybe later," says Bellamy. He settles into the sofa, flicking through the channels on the television.

"Besides, I have a friend coming over," adds Octavia. As if she has planned it, there is a knock on the door. Marion, about to leave, opens it. She greets the person enthusiastically, and in a second Bellamy knows who it is.

Clarke steps inside. Today she is wearing a fluffy white top and a pink skirt. Sometimes Bellamy cannot believe she and Octavia are best friends – their styles are completely different. Octavia looks like she has stepped out a rock concert, while Clarke could pass for the daughter of a president.

She smiles at Octavia before her eyes stray to Bellamy. "Hey," she says brightly, either oblivious to the shock on Bellamy's face – or simply ignoring it. "Looking forward to Christmas?"

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><p>In the days leading up to Christmas, it becomes a routine. Clarke comes over at all times of day, from early morning and staying sometimes through the night. She takes over the house, watching movies with Octavia and cooking meals. To his surprise they cook meals not traditional to Christmas: spaghetti Bolognese, tomato and red pepper soup, one time even a decent attempt at sushi. Of course, they make it up with baking as many mince pies that Bellamy has ever seen, and three attempts at a Yule log before they get it right.<p>

She is relentlessly cheerful, just like during school. And, just like in school, she tries to drag him into joining them. Thankfully he has work to keep him busy, and he tries to see his friends as much as possible. Every time he comes home though, he finds Clarke sitting in the living room, stuffing her face with popcorn.

He has half a mind to kick her out. After all, it's his holiday; if he wants to be a modern-day Scrooge, so be it. But there is Octavia sitting beside her, laughing her head off, and when she is happy Bellamy doesn't have the heart to stop it.

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><p>It is on the 22nd that they finally decide to decorate the tree.<p>

"We have to," Octavia says. "It's three days until Christmas. We can't not have a tree."

Bellamy wants to tell her that, this year, he would be happy if they pretended they were Jewish and went out for Chinese food on Christmas day. But his baby sister is looking up at him with bright eyes, and he agrees.

(Of course he blames Clarke for this)

She is there when they start decorating the tree. Octavia is there for maybe five minutes before her phone goes off. Blushing a little, she escapes his narrowed eyes by ducking through to the kitchen, closing the sliding doors.

He and Clarke are alone.

Yep, someone up there hates him.

"I like your decorations," she says. She lifts up a reindeer made from superglue and sticks, curtsey of Octavia.

Bellamy snorts at this. "They're not exactly perfect," he says. "Most of them look like they came from the garbage." He is holding up a small orange bear; where his parents got this, God knows. "I bet your tree looks better."

But Clarke shakes her head. "Our tree looks like we pulled it out from the store. Mom won't even let me put tinsel on it. It's not even a real tree." She gestures to the tree in front of them, a proper tree weighed down in ornaments – and not all of them have been put on yet. "This tree has character. Personality."

"As much as a tree can have personality," snorts Bellamy.

Clarke rolls her eyes, but she's got a bit of a smile on her face. She bends down, picking up another decoration from one of the boxes. When she lifts it out he knows exactly which one she's picked: another handmade one, a candy-cane frame with a picture of him, Octavia, and his mother and father in it. It was obviously taken years ago; he must have been four or five at the time. He is wearing a Santa's hat, with a huge grin on his face. He's sitting on his dad's lap, looking like he's in the middle of a laugh.

He wants to snatch it out of Clarke's hands. She's smiling down at it. "Y'know what?"

_Don't,_ he wants to yell. _Don't say anything about them. Don't turn them into one of your speeches about how Christmas brings family together. Don't turn them into one of your campaigns. _

"You look like your mom."

Whatever Bellamy had been expecting, it wasn't that. He lets out a choked laugh. "Yeah right."

"No, I'm serious."

"_Octavia_ looks like Mom," he corrects. "I look more like Dad." Octavia is practically a replica of their mother when she was younger, except Octavia's eyes are almost a violet colour, whereas his mom's were a lighter blue. But he's always resembled his father more.

She shoots him a glance. "Are we looking at the same photo?" She edges closer to him, holding the frame closer to their faces. "See," she says, pointing with her pinkie finger at his mother. "You both have the same smile. When you grin you look like her." Under her eyelashes she peeks at him. "Well, when you _actually_ manage to dreg one up."

He looks at her and sees that she means it. In that moment, he feels his heart lift.

He manages to get through another day.

* * *

><p>The thin layer of security he has managed to wrap round himself comes crashing down on Christmas Eve.<p>

It's late. Abby and Clarke had come over (Marion and Abby work a lot together, so they are quite good friends) and they had eaten mini pizzas and mince pies while watching films. Abby had gone back to the hospital while Marion is upstairs, on the phone with her girlfriend who is in Rhode Island visiting family. Bellamy is upstairs, reading an old comic book, when he hears the crash.

He already knows what he's going to find when he comes down. The Christmas tree is on the floor, brought down by the weight of the decorations – or maybe it wasn't even put up properly to begin with. Together Clarke and Octavia are lifting the tree back into place. A lot of the decorations are still on the tree.

Underneath is a crumpled mess of twinkling shards.

"No."

Clarke looks stricken. Octavia wipes a hand over her face.

"_No_."

He goes to his knees, scrabbling for the missing pieces.

His grandmother's old ugly tin bauble. Two pieces. He can fix it.

The golden bell that they bought on holiday in Vermont, dented on one side. It looks more authentic like that anyway. He grabs it.

The polar bear, with a bit of leg snapped off. He can plaster that. He shoves the bits under his arm as best he can.

"_Bell-_"

"_Leave him_."

Octavia's handmade Christmas tree, snapped in three pieces. Completely fixable.

The candy-cane, broken in two. Easy.

"_Look at his hands Clarke._"

The snowman, from years ago. Its head is missing. Bellamy shoves his body to the floor, peering under the tree for it.

"_Let him do this. He _needs _to do this._"

The star he made on his best Christmas, snapped in five pieces. He collects the bits in his hands, feeling them prick into his skin.

He feels someone come beside him, but he doesn't look up. He is attempting to get all the decorations in his hands, struggling with the pieces. He reaches over to continue collecting when he sees a broken piece of a smile.

_No. No. _

The candy-cane frame, holding the picture of his family inside. Smashed. Utterly destroyed, completely irreplaceable. His mom and dad were dead. They couldn't take another one.

A hand, small and pink, covers his hand. He looks at Clarke. She is kneeling next to him, biting her lip and twisting the end of her shirt. Her eyes though, they are honest, and they look right at him.

"It's gone, isn't it?"

She nods. "I'm sorry."

He suddenly sags, as if all the strength has left in his body. He looks at the mess still on the floor, shards of unidentified decorations glittering from the lights. He drops the ones he's holding, and they tumble to the ground. It's only then that he sees the mess on his hands. "God," he breathes.

"Yeah."

He looks at her. "I didn't even feel it."

"Clearly not, by the way you were grabbing onto them."

He looks over his shoulder. "Where's Octavia?"

"She tried to stop you, but I told her to let you be. She's gone to her room."

He nods. He knows he wouldn't be able to be stopped by anyone. She puts a hand on his wrist. "C'mon," she says. "We need to get them cleaned."

She takes him to the kitchen and lets the cold water wash them clean. It stings, so Bellamy lets his eyes water. Clarke doesn't look at him, thank God, but he can't seem to get rid of them now. Even in the light of the bright, undecorated kitchen, he can still see the destroyed ornaments.

"It's okay Bellamy." She is still plastering up his hands, but she looks at him.

"It's not okay Clarke. They're not here." As soon as he says it the tears start. He can't stop them, and right now he's too upset to care. "I miss them Clarke. I miss my mom and dad." He thinks of the songs his mother used to sing in the shower, the feeling of his father's stubble when he kissed him goodnight. "Every day I lose a bit more of them, and I can't get it back." He wants to say more but he can't tell her that he still comes home, with stories that he wants to tell them on the tip of his tongue. That there are some nights where he plays his mother's last voicemail over and over again. That he keeps his father's old jersey at the bottom of his pyjama drawer, and puts it on his pillow when he can't sleep even though it stopped smelling like his dad a long time ago.

"And I can't pretend I like Christmas. Not when I miss them like hell. I miss them all the time, but this time of year it's, like, impossible to be happy."

"I know."

He lifts his head, able to look at her. "You know?"

Clarke nods. "My dad died two years ago, about the same time as your mom."

Bellamy's breath catches a little. He knew Clarke only lived with her mother, but he assumed that her father had walked out on them. He now understands, with sudden clarity, why she and Octavia are such good friends.

She shifts on the stool. "You can't pretend at Christmas. The rest of the year there are other things to distract you – college applications and exams and parties and friends – but at Christmas..." She swallows. It's her turn not to at him. "You're meant to spend time with your family. And since my mom works all the time, it used to be just me and my dad. It used to be _our _holiday. Now-" He sees the flash of tears in her eyes. She turns away, giving them both a chance to wipe their faces.

"So why do you go mad about Christmas? Organising carolling events and present wrapping sessions-"

"God Bellamy, why d'you think? The more I distract myself, the less I think about having to spend Christmas without him. I come over here because otherwise I'm alone just looking at the decorations and old family photographs and I couldn't take it. Not this year."

And he sees her. He sees past the perfect girl, the straight-A student, the beautiful teenager, the dutiful daughter. He sees the girl who knows pain. The girl that feels it, perhaps more intensely then others. The girl that has flaws and knows it.

He doesn't think she's ever been more beautiful.

* * *

><p>By the time he walks her home, it's nearing midnight. The residential streets are quiet, and a calm settles between them. He doesn't feel sad anymore. He's not exactly sure what he feels.<p>

But for some reason, he and Clarke are holding hands. He doesn't know why, but neither of them is wearing gloves and he can feel the warmth from her hand. He doesn't want to let go.

As if this moment couldn't get more TV-movie like, it starts snowing. They stop when it begins, without saying anything to each other, and watch the swirls of snowflakes fall. It starts off slowly, and Bellamy tries to keep track of one as it falls to the ground, and then another, and another. He has the sudden memory of when he was little, and when it was snowing he would make wishes on each flake, stupid wishes like having something nice for tea, or getting a new bicycle for his next birthday.

He makes a wish on one now.

He walks Clarke to the door of her house. He pauses, not wanting to enter the big house. He feels a stab of pity for her, because he would hate to be sitting in there by himself. "You could have stayed," he tells her.

She shakes her head. "Thanks for walking me back."

"No problem."

They stand there. He thinks she wants to keep talking like he does, because neither of them wants to be alone.

"How'd you get on with that list?" She looks at him, her face scrunched up. "That unselfish Christmas list thing? How'd you do?"

She shrugs. "I finished mine ages ago. I asked for peace on earth, happy children, etc."

"Oh."

She is looking at him, her hands shoved in the pockets of her jacket. Snow is in her hair, making it wet. It's even in her eyelashes. "My other list is harder," she says finally. "The one where I'm allowed to be selfish."

He can feel a smirk growing on his face. "The ultimate child's Christmas list?"

"Yep."

"What did you ask for on that one?"

She brings her lips together. There is something about the way that her eyes are bright, the way she is dancing on the balls of her feet, that makes him want to hear more. "To be honest, there's only one thing I really want this year."

* * *

><p>She kisses him, her hands on his neck, his coat. He pushes her against the door, keeping her right next to him. Her kiss tastes of candy and tea, feels warm, feels hopeful, feels <em>good<em>.

He's never been kissed like this before. He's never felt a kiss stir something inside of him, make him simultaneously ache and lift.

He's not sure how long they kiss. The snow is coming down heavily now, flying round them like a flock of birds. But neither of them pays much attention to it. Finally, in the distance, the clock tower rings out. The bells chime, once, twice, three times, four times, right up until the twelfth ring when it finally ends.

Clarke pulls away. By pulling away, he means she rests her head back against the door, her nose touching the tip of his. "Merry Christmas Bellamy," she whispers.

He feels the smile come from the roots of his feet, to the ends of his hair. "Merry Christmas Clarke." This Christmas is turning out to be the best one yet.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **My grown-up Christmas list:

1) No torture of anyone or anything  
>2) No wars<br>3) A world where people could follow their dreams  
>4) Children would always have a home<br>5) No one would ever spend Christmas alone  
>6) That we could and would sort out the environment and global warming<br>7) That everyone would have a best friend who they could confide in and be themselves with  
>8) That we could feed everyone in the world<br>9) That everyone had hope  
>10) No murderersrapists/evil people  
>11) That we would all find love, even if it took years<br>12) That I could win the lottery so I could give my mum whatever she wanted and she could quit her job

And for my selfish one:

1) For Clarke and Bellamy to be endgame

* * *

><p><strong>Hours to make. Seconds to comment.<strong>

**PLEASE REVIEW**


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